The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(9)

Wayward Street was still a muddy mire festooned with a dozen stagnant pools and scarred with the deep tracks from wagon wheels. A filthy patch of stubborn gray snow remained clutched in the shadowy armpit between the tanner’s shop and The Rose and the Thorn tavern. But the roofs were clear, and like a spring flower, Medford House blossomed with fresh blue paint. The last rays of sunlight illuminated the front porch of the grand house of prostitution, which was looking more like a luxurious inn as of late.

“Not much on patience, is she?” Hadrian said. “Thought she was going to wait for warmer weather.”

The front door opened, and Gwen DeLancy stepped onto the porch. She was wearing her blue dress, and the color very nearly matched the paint on the house. Royce guessed that was the point. He’d always liked that dress, and the color had nothing to do with it. Gwen smiled and extended her arms in proud presentation. “Well? What do you think? They just started today. Didn’t get too far, just this one wall, but isn’t the color wonderful?”

“It’s blue,” Hadrian said. “Wouldn’t a different color be better for business? Shouldn’t it be pink or something?”

“Of course it’s blue!” she scolded. “Medford House was always going to be blue. Just took me a while to raise the funds.”

Hadrian nodded. “Looks expensive.”

The two climbed down. They didn’t bother tying up their horses. The animals knew the routine and patiently waited to be unloaded.

“It is expensive.” Gwen pulled her arms in tight and half spun to admire the place she’d built. The skirt of her dress flared with the movement and her shoulders squeezed close to her neck, battling the chilly breeze. She was barefoot, one leg bent, her weight on the other, a hip tilted.

Royce stared and cursed time for insisting on moving.

“Royce?” Hadrian said.

“What?”

“Your pack.”

“What about it?”

“You set it down in the mud. It’s getting filthy.”

Royce looked around. His bag had somehow found its way into the slurry that was known to be a mixture of manure and sludge. “Gah!” he uttered his disgust, grabbing it and hoisting it to the steps. “How did that get there?” He glared at Hadrian accusingly.

“Don’t look at me. That was all your doing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that?”

“I was thinking the same thing. Kinda why I mentioned it.”

Royce scowled at the pack as if it were somehow responsible.

“Maybe you were distracted by how beautiful the new color is,” Gwen said, turning back. Her skirt did that flaring thing again. The sunlight caught her face and highlighted eyes outlined in dark paint. Her lips glistened, pulled up in a modest smile.

Hadrian snorted. “Yeah, that must have been it.” He placed his own saddlebags on the porch steps and took Royce’s reins. “Go on in. I’ll take the horses over.”

Gwen shook her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll have Dixon take care of them. Albert’s waiting inside.”

“Is he?” Hadrian exchanged a look of confusion with Royce.

Gwen nodded. “He’s all smiles. Says you got paid.”

“Paid? For what?” Royce asked.

Gwen shrugged, rolling mostly bare shoulders, making Royce want to ask For what? again. “The job you just finished, I would expect.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Royce turned to Hadrian. “Does that make sense to you?”

“Maybe you should talk to Albert,” Gwen coaxed.

Hadrian started up the steps, but Royce didn’t move. Days had passed since he’d seen Gwen, and he just wanted to look at her—to be with her. Such behavior wasn’t normal, not like him at all. Royce felt awkward and uncomfortable. Gwen, it seemed, was a much better thief. She’d managed to steal an entire person; She’d pinched his old self, stealing it away like a poorly guarded purse. When she was around, everything was different. Mostly, it was confusing, both exciting and peaceful, which left Royce pondering the change. Was he better off or crippled? Had he lost his way or found a better one?

“You should go inside,” Gwen said. “It’s getting cold out here, and Albert probably wants to talk to both of you.”





Eight. Eight gold tenents. Royce eyed the pale yellow disks with the embossed image of Amrath, or maybe it was the king’s father. Apparently, the two looked similar, or perhaps they didn’t and the kingdom’s treasurer got lazy and had the minter make only slight modifications to the previous molds. Didn’t matter. The fact remained that they were genuine, and there were eight. Royce, Hadrian, and Albert were in the Dark Room, a moniker bestowed due to its lack of windows as well as the shady business conducted there. Albert had dumped the coins on the table, then sat back in the chair nearest the fireplace to put his stocking feet up on the hearth. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“I don’t understand,” Royce said.

“No mystery; we got paid.” Albert gestured at the money with an overly dramatic flourish. The viscount had lost everything except his title before becoming Royce and Hadrian’s liaison to the nobility. He retained a lofty air and that easygoing attitude that comes from living without fear of any natural predator.